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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23321233">After</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibanana/pseuds/Bibanana'>Bibanana</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The scenes we don't see [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, Gen, I said angst right?, In between canon, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, The scene we don’t see, Train of Thought, anxiety attack</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:55:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,607</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23321233</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibanana/pseuds/Bibanana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock remembers John’s rough, calloused hand clasped in his own. He remembers squeezing so tightly and the wanting. The wanting that that moment would last forever. The wind in their hair, their fingers intertwined, sirens behind them. And they ran. Together, hand in hand, they ran.</p><p>Of course, nothing lasts forever. Surely this was proof.</p><p> </p><p>Poor Sherlock was expecting to come home to open arms after two years of torture. If only John could just see...</p><p> </p><p>This is the scene we don’t know happens, just before Mary receives the skip code in The Empty Hearse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The scenes we don't see [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678477</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>After</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/10351659">Tomorrow's Song</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname">agirlsname</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don’t usually write in present tense so if there are some switches to past tense or any other errors that you notice, please let me know in the comments so that I can fix it.<br/>Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!</p><p>This is part of a series but they all stand alone. They can be read in any order and have nothing to do with one another, besides the fact that they all happen in between canon.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock paces, cursing Moriarty and Mycroft and everyone that caused this. He paces, wishing it were Before. Before, John always knew what to do, what to say, how to help. If it were Before, Sherlock would have eaten today. Before, John made sure that Sherlock ate and slept. Before, John never let Sherlock spiral like this. He never would have let Sherlock spiral, down, down, until his thoughts were consumed and he couldn’t breathe and he just kept spiraling down.</p><p>
  <em> John. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Alone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mary. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Goddamit Mary. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> John. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Stolen. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> John. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I miss you, John. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m hungry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Is there food? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t need food. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There isn’t food anyway, I don’t shop. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t shop, you do. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> John. </em>
</p><p>Before, John always interrupted perfectly. Sherlock would start to spiral and his mind would speed up and he needed the drugs more than ever and he needed- <em> Sherlock, can I borrow your card? Sherlock, I’m back from the store. Sherlock, I’m just letting you know that I’m doing the laundry, if you need anything washed. </em></p><p>Always the perfect thing at the perfect time. Small, ordinary, dull, things like that, that pulled Sherlock out of his spiral. Of course, nothing is ever small or ordinary or dull when it comes to John Watson. John makes everything glitter. Well, he did Before.</p><p>It is not Before, anymore.</p><p>He should have gotten used to being without John In Between. In Between lasted two years. That should have been enough time. But it was not. As soon as he came back, as soon as After started, he missed John more than ever. It was John that got him through the months of torture and malnourishment and now that John is just a cab drive away, he can’t have him. In a way, After is even more painful than In Between. He isn’t sure how he will be able to go on cases now. How can he possibly deduce a murder without the promise of a <em> “brilliant” </em> or <em> “extrodinary” </em> and the end? What is the point of doing anything if he knew that John wouldn’t be there to nag him about timing or politeness or what people would think. He always cared so much. He cared so much about what people thought.</p><p>
  <em> ‘You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘They do little else.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Take my hand!’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘Now people will definitely talk.’ </em>
</p><p> Sherlock remembers John’s rough, calloused hand clasped in his own. He remembers squeezing so tightly and the <em> wanting. </em> The wanting that that moment would last forever. The wind in their hair, their fingers intertwined, sirens behind them. And they ran. Together, hand in hand, they ran.</p><p>Of course, nothing lasts forever. Surely this was proof.</p><p>Sherlock wonders when he had let himself get so attached. There was a time that he treasured being alone. A time when he didn’t rely on the flattery of another human to function. That was a time that he hardly thought of. A time before Before. A time before John. It seemed impossible that such a time existed. If Sherlock’s life is a trilogy made up of Before, In Between, and After, and he was the hero, the time before Before would be the prologue.</p><p>
  <em> There was once a detective, alone, but not lonely. </em>
</p><p>But his life is not a trilogy. He is not a hero. Heros don’t exist, and if they did, he wouldn’t be one of them. Heros don’t hate humanity. Heros don’t catch bad guys for the sake of a dopamine hit and a momentary escape from reality. Heros don’t crumble and burn the moment their sidekick found someone more worthy of their time and trust.</p><p>No, that’s wrong. How could he let himself be so, unbearably <em> wrong </em>?</p><p>John isn’t a sidekick.</p><p>John is a strong, independent, beautiful person who is overshadowed by no one. John shines brighter than anything in the world and if you happen to have the good fortune of being in the same room as him, you will not be able to look away.</p><p>Sherlock could never shine that bright. Sherlock is a black hole.</p><p>That’s why they worked so well together.</p><p>Mary doesn’t know John, really <em> know </em> him. She sees a fair natured doctor with a bit of temper. She doesn’t see the adrenaline junkie, the darkness that somehow glows bright behind those clear blue eyes. She thinks he’s funny, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that that’s all just a facade. A perfect mask that no one but Sherlock can remove.</p><p>She will never know.</p><p>Sherlock grabs his coat and ties his scarf, a little too tight.</p><p>“Mrs. Hudson, I’m going out!”</p><p>Everything is a blur of footsteps on the stairs (his footsteps?) and the flat’s door closing and Mrs. Hudson says something but what is she saying and Sherlock just needs to get outside. He can’t breathe and he needs to get outside and-</p><p>The cold air wraps around him, icy fingers clawing at his cheeks. He walks. He walks and he breathes and his head starts to clear.</p><p>Sherlock notices a stand across the street labeled ‘Chips! One Pound!’ and is cruelly reminded just how hungry he was. John would buy some for them. John would buy some and he always knows best. John is the only person in the world that is truly perfect, without flaws. Correction: John <em> was </em> the only perfect person. Before. Now, John thinks he is ready to give it all up, everything they had. He thinks that he really could move on from a life on thrill and danger for a boring, dull life of domesticity. Sherlock doesn’t like the After version of John.</p><p>Anyway. Chips.</p><p>He crosses the street and pulls a crumpled five pound note out of his coat pocket. After purchasing the chips, he heads back to the flat. He isn’t ready to go back yet, he doesn’t want to resume drowning, but he knows that if he doesn’t go now, he never will. Though he’ll never admit it, he takes great value in Mrs. Hudson’s small greetings. He hates going home to a dark flat, after Mrs. Hudson goes to bed. And he really, really, doesn’t want to stay out tonight. It is cold, and lonely, and he knows that John would be so disappointed in him. John would not want to see him on the street.</p><p>So he goes back to Bakerstreet and hugs Mrs. Hudson and breathes in her perfume and silently thanks her for not changing. She is the only person in his life who is still the same person as she was Before.</p><p>Sherlock steps lightly up the stairs, not bothering to close the door, and opens his bag of chips. The smell that wafts out is so warm and comforting, it makes him want to vomit. He has eaten nothing today and is almost certain that his body will reject the deep fried and heavily salted chips. More than that, a certain guilt overcomes him. He went nearly a week and a half without food or sleep in Serbia. In Serbia, where they punched him and cut him and broke him until the only thing that kept him going was the thought that when he returned, it would be to John’s smiling face and a warm welcome back. To give in to his hunger after a mere day, that was weak. He doesn’t deserve that, he can do better. Chips don’t sound so appealing anymore.</p><p>His hands begin to shake around the bag of chips. He sees his violin sitting on the armchair (John’s chair). Playing would be nice. Playing would be a lot better than eating.</p><p>That is when he heard her voice. “Sorry. I- I think someone’s got John. John Watson?”</p><p>He turns around, heart racing.</p><p>John. In danger. Someone has John. No. John.</p><p>“Hang on.” Mrs. Hudson says, confused. “Who are you?”</p><p>Mary smiles. “Oh. I’m his fiance.” She says it proudly, wearing the word <em> ‘fiance’ </em> on her lips like a badge of honor. Sherlock scowls but the bitterness doesn’t last long.</p><p>“Mary!” He commands Mary’s attention to himself. John, his John, needs saving. “What’s wrong?” His tone is all business, all emotion hidden deep beneath the surface. He can’t let sentiment get in the way, not when John’s life is on the line.</p><p>“Someone sent me this.” She shows him her phone. “At first I thought it was a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it’s not.” The corner of her mouth twitches upwards slightly, as if this excites her. “It’s a skip code.”</p><p>He sees it. “First word, then every third.” If he’s being completely honest, the puzzle excites him, just a little, too. “Save John Watson.” He reads. “Now.”</p><p>The bag of chips, still in his hands, goes cascading to the floor. It lands with a dull smack and chips scatter out. And he is running, not bothering to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. His heart is pounding and his eyes are darting back and forth, frantically. Mary is speaking and he is responding, he’s not quite sure what they're saying, though. It’s all too slow, they won’t get there in time. She’s asking something but he can’t give her a full answer. It’s all too slow. Too slow. He’s muttering to himself, trying to think. He needs speed, he needs to go fast, something to avoid the traffic. He needs to save John because John can’t die. If John dies, the last two years, the entire In Between, the whole thing that caused After, will have been in vain. If John dies, so will Sherlock.</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t just love John. He lives for him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just an idea I had, though I can only take partial credit. I would never have written this if Tomorrow’s Song by agirlsname hadn’t consumed my life. It is a beautiful fic that I highly recommend and you should go read now that you have finished this one.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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